5
Work hasn't been going too well for Julia recently. She spends more and more time lost in a daydream; her researchers have to fight to get her attention, force her to make a decision.
On Monday her phone rings on her desk, disturbing her latest reverie.
“Julia? Mike here.” Mike Jones. Director of Programming. Her mentor.
“Hi, Mike. Everything okay?”
“Julia, I'd like you to come and see me. Have you got a moment now?” In the old days this would have set her pulse racing: Perhaps she was being given an exciting new project. In the very old days, when she was young and inexperienced, and not part of the furniture here, her pulse would have been racing for fear of being sacked.
Today her pulse doesn't even bother to speed up.
She stands up wearily and scrapes her hair back as Johnny, her protégé and right-hand man, looks at her sadly, wondering what happened to the bright, vibrant woman who had employed him and steered him from runner to producer. They used to laugh all the time, she and Johnny, but she is too distracted these days to even crack a smile. He knows about the baby stuff. God, who doesn't. But he doesn't understand why she's letting it get to her so much.
Sometimes he thinks he should tell her about the rumors. Tell her that people are muttering that she's lost it, that it won't be long before she's given the boot, but then again, these are only rumors, and if they're not true he's one messenger who doesn't want to get shot.
That's another thing. She never used to have a temper. Her team used to adore her, they'd go out regularly after work and drink themselves stupid, and Julia was always up for the crack. Now she's far more likely to shout, or belittle, or patronize. The worst thing is that most of the time he can see she has absolutely no clue she's doing it.
Her friends at work have turned against her, and Johnny's only sticking by her because of a shared history, and because he's praying that this is temporary, that one day soon she'll be the old Julia again.
“Off somewhere?” he says, as she starts slowly walking out, a far cry from the dynamo of old, so busy she didn't walk anywhere, she whirled.
“Oh.” She turns, blinking her eyes to bring her back to reality. “Just up to see Mike. Shouldn't be long. He probably wants to give me a bollocking about all those complaints.” Her last show, Summer Fling, sent singles off to the Mediterranean in search of love, but most of the time they ended up with booze and sex, and more than a smattering of bad language. Although the ratings were great, the complaints had gone through the roof.
“I hope you're right,” Johnny says, almost under his breath as he turns back to his computer screen.
Julia turns at the door. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”
The lift doors open, Julia steps in, deep in thought, and as the door closes she looks up.
“Shit. I thought this was going up,” she mutters.
“Julia?”
She struggles for a few seconds to remember the face, then the name, because it is not a face she associates with work. “Oh, hi,” she says, placing her. “What are you doing here? It's Maeve, isn't it?”
Maeve nods. “You're never going to believe this, but I've just had a job interview. I was going to call you, actually, when I heard, but then I got so busy preparing for this I never had a chance.”
“What a small world. I didn't even know you were in this game. And aren't you living in Brighton?”
Maeve shrugs and smiles as if to say there is a lot Julia doesn't know. “That's the only thing I can't get my head round. London rents. If I get this, I'll have to move back, and the rents have gone crazy since I last lived here.”
For a second Julia contemplates inviting her to move in with them. God knows they have enough space, but she hardly knows this girl, and Mark would go crazy. “You could try the noticeboard,” she volunteers eventually, and breathes a sigh of relief as the lift doors open and they are on the ground floor.
“If you get the job and you need anything just call,” Julia manages, just before the lift doors close. “Nice to see you again. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Maeve smiles a warm smile. “And to you too.”
As soon as the doors close, Julia turns and looks at herself in the mirrored wall of the lift. Christ, she looks awful. Her hair's greasy, her eyes are bloodshot, and she could pretty much carry the weekly shopping home in the bags under her eyes. At the beginning of the sleepless nights she tried to disguise it with cleverly applied makeup, but she rarely even does that these days. She sighs as the lift opens out on to the twelfth floor, and walks into Mike's office.
“You look f*cking awful.” Mike's first words, allowable only because they are friends. And because it is true. “What the f*ck is going on?”
Julia smiles. “Lovely to see you too, Mike. And how are you?”
“I'm serious, Julia, you look like shit.” Mike shakes his head and sighs, sadness and sympathy combined in his eyes.
Mike Jones is not the sort of man you would expect to work for a major television company, even less to see behind a large beech desk in an executive office, on the executive floor.
He's dressed as he always is (unless of course there's a big meeting with the ITC and Mike has to explain away explicit language or programming, in which case he wears the one suit he has in his wardrobe; the suit's Hugo Boss, except he wears it with Hush Puppies, which kind of destroys the effect), in jeans and T-shirt. Mike would describe himself as a geezer. Others, who didn't know him, might describe him as a thug. Short, crop-haired, stockily built—Julia always used to tease him by saying she was surprised she hadn't spotted him in the latest football violence videos.
His “genuine Larndan accent,” penchant for football shirts, and liking for more than a few pints with the boys belie a brilliant creative genius. He is a man who is loved by everyone who's ever worked with him, hated and feared by other television companies.
He didn't go to university (“university of life, mate, university of life. Rest of that stuff's for f*ckin' ponces, innit?''), started off at London Daytime as a post boy, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Mike Jones is famous for his mind, his constant use of expletives and his—somewhat inexplicable until you get to know him—ability to pull women. Six years ago, at a Christmas party when Julia was very drunk and still found his power something of an aphrodisiac, they went to bed together. It was never discussed again, but Mike has always had something of a soft spot for her, and he is the only one who is actually willing to talk to her about what is going on.
“So come on, what's it all about? You look like shit, your work's going down the pan, I've got researchers in here every other day complaining about you throwing a tantrum, and I'm wondering why the f*ck I still employ you. Would you like to enlighten me?”
Julia has turned as white as a sheet. “Are you serious?” she whispers. “Do my researchers really come in here and complain about me?”
“Never mind about them. I want to know about you. I know you're trying for a baby and I know you're having problems.” Julia blanches, but Mike carries on regardless. “I feel for you, I really do, and I can't even begin to imagine the shit you must be going through, but you have to find a way of leaving it behind you when you come to work.”
“I thought I had.” Julia is on the brink of tears, and Mike's voice softens.
“Look, we think you need some time off.”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
“Yeah. Take a few months to get your shit together. Go to a doctor. Go to a health farm. Go on holiday. F*ck, I don't know. Just do whatever you need to do to get back to the old Julia again, and maybe you'll have that bun in the oven by the time you get back.”
Julia sits there, stunned. She wants to cry, to shout, to scream, but she knows Mike, and knows it won't do any good. And finally she realizes that he's right. She's exhausted and she feels as bad as she looks.
And suddenly the prospect of a few months off starts to sound really rather nice.
Eventually she looks up at him. “Okay. I think I probably need the time. But what about my new series? What are you going to do about finding someone for Loved Up?”
“Just found someone,” Mike says triumphantly. “Used to hear about her when she worked at Anglia, but I wouldn't think you'd know her. Lovely girl. Irish. Redhead,” and he winks at Julia, who is already aware of his fondness for Gillian Anderson.
“It's Maeve, isn't it?” she sighs.
“I don't f*cking believe it,” Mike barks. “You know f*cking everyone! Maeve's coming in on short notice, and she knows about you, and she's happy to take over. Your team met her briefly—”
“She met the team? Jesus, Mike, I'm not even out the door and you've been sneaking around behind my back. I suppose all my team loved her? I suppose they thought she wouldn't be the type to throw tantrums.” This last word is spat out, the smell of betrayal suddenly in the air.
“Julia, relax. No one's done any sneaking. She came in for the first time a couple of weeks ago for another show, and I called her back today because I had Loved Up in mind. There was nothing to tell you, and your team hasn't really met her properly. Although Stella met her while you and Johnny were off doing that recce in Swindon.”
“No one told me,” she says miserably. “They all hate me, don't they?”
“No one told you because no one knew who she was. They probably all thought she was my latest shag.”
Julia manages a smile.
“There you go.” Mike smiles too. “And no, for your information your researchers don't hate you.”
“Thanks, Mike. I feel better now.”
“They're f*cking terrified of you.”
“You wanker.” And Julia starts to laugh.
They talk a bit longer, then Mike walks her to the lift, the subject now his beer session of the night before. They stand, listening to the rumble of the lift as it approaches, and Mike turns to face Julia again. “Listen,” he says, giving her an awkward kiss on the cheek. “If there's ever anything you need, anything at all, you just call me, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, giving him a grateful smile. “Okay.”
There's no point in sitting around the office all day. Not now. Not when she's supposed to be working on her new series. Maeve's new series. She doesn't even have the energy to say good-bye properly. She tries to phone Mark when she gets back, not to explain, not on the phone from this open-plan office, but to see whether he'll meet her in the bar so she can tell him, but he's not around. She doesn't bother to leave a message on voicemail. She'll tell him later.
At lunchtime, when everyone's out, Julia goes through her drawers, selecting the few odd things she wants to take home. A quick raid on the stationery cupboard and she's ready.
“Is everything okay?”
Bugger. Johnny's come back into the office just as she's leaving. He looks at her, standing there holding a large cardboard box, incomprehension written all over his face.
Julia stops in her tracks. “I need a break,” she says slowly. “I just had a long chat with Mike. We've agreed that I'm going to take a sabbatical.”
Johnny doesn't know what to say.
“It's okay, Johnny. I know what everyone's been saying, and I know I've been a bit of a bitch recently, but I do need to, as Mike put it, get my shit together.”
Johnny's face is crestfallen as Julia carefully puts the box on the corner of a nearby desk, then comes back to put her arms around him and give him a hug.
“You'll be fine without me,” she says into his ear. “Plus you've got a gorgeous redhead taking my place,” and when she pulls back she is slightly pissed off to see that Johnny looks the tiniest bit excited at this prospect. His allegiances clearly aren't that strong after all.
The door slams and Julia hears Mark swearing in the hallway. He hates the door slamming behind him, is terrified the wood or doorframe will get damaged, but has no choice when he brings work home and has to negotiate the door with arms full of files.
“Julia?” he shouts from the bottom of the stairs. She walks slowly down to him, toweling her hair dry, stopping a few steps from the bottom as Mark puts his files down, straightening up to look at her.
“Is it true?”
Julia nods.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so. I suppose everyone's already gossiping about it?”
Mark makes a face. “If I believed everything I heard, I'd have come home expecting you to be carried off in a straitjacket by the men in white.”
“You are joking.” She's horrified.
“Only just. People do seem to think you're in the middle of a nervous breakdown.”
“F*ck it, Mark. Why do you have to say things like that? Jesus, you're so bloody insensitive at times.”
“Julia, you asked me, for Christ's sake. Why are you having a go at me? God, can't we just have a civilized evening for a change and actually talk about this? All I know is what I've heard in the office and I've been trying to get you all afternoon. Johnny said you left at lunchtime and your bloody mobile's been switched off all day.”
Julia is silent. Resentful. She doesn't blame him for anything.
She blames him for everything.
She left the office at lunchtime, took a cab straight home, and then was stuck. Alone, in this huge house that she hates, she wandered from room to room, trying to work out how she felt. Was she relieved? Happy? Angry? Disappointed?
Empty. That was how she felt. That was all she felt. All the time.
Switching on the TV, just to have some background noise, she found herself watching a daytime show about problem children. Hyperactive, disobedient, unruly children, none older than seven, and she wanted to hit the despairing parents. How dare you complain, she thought in fury. How dare you say anything against your children when you are so privileged to even have them in the first place.
She switched off the TV in disgust, grabbed her coat, and stepped outside, bracing herself against the cold January air. Julia hasn't been for a walk for ages. She used to walk a lot, when she was single, and had time.
She walked up to the Heath, running up the concrete steps before she hit the wide open spaces, the children's paddling pool now empty for winter, the running track with a few lone runners. It was good to be outside in the fresh air. Good that her nose was turning red with cold, that she had to bundle her hands down deep in her coat to try and keep them warm.
There was so much to think about, so many thoughts to process, that it was actually easier to think of nothing at all. She walked, and walked, and walked.
A few lone dog walkers had also braved the freezing weather. She did a full circle, then sat down outside a cafe for a while, warming her hands around a mug of steaming coffee, occasionally exchanging the odd word or two about the weather with a passing dog walker.
Just as she was about to leave, a woman turned up with two children. One of them a girl, about three years old, the other a little boy, not more than eighteen months, toddling around the table. The little girl was beautiful. Dark hair, big brown eyes, eyelashes that could have picked you up and carried you away. She was tiny, so tiny and doll-like, with the sweetest smile. Julia couldn't tear her eyes away.
“No, Katie,” the mother reprimanded, as Katie crouched down to pick up someone's half-eaten Crunchie. “You mustn't eat that. It's rubbish,” and she picked it up gingerly and took it over to the dustbin while the little girl's face was crestfallen. “Here you are, lovely,” the mother soothed, reaching into her bag. “Here's your favorite. Yum yum yum. Organic rice cake.”
Julia watched them, a smile on her face, which the harassed mother returned, assuming the smile was for her. The little girl took a bite of the rice cake, promptly dropping it on the floor when she saw Julia watching her. She pranced off, turning round so her back was to Julia, then looked over her shoulder coyly, giving Julia a smile.
“Hello.” Julia's heart melted as she watched her display. “That's a lovely dress.”
The little girl watched Julia, sized her up and down, evidently deciding whether to talk. “It's my party dress,” she said eventually. “Can you see my rabbits?” She held up the skirt to show off her embroidered rabbits.
“They're beautiful,” Julia said, wanting nothing more than to scoop up this little girl and take her home. “Do they have names?”
The little girl shook her head. “Do you have rabbits?”
“No. But I did when I was a little girl. Like you.”
“What were their names?”
“I had a big white fluffy one called Flopsy, and a small brown one called Bugsy.”
The little girl bit her lip as she digested this information, then she took a step closer to Julia. “Do you have a little girl like me?”
Julia almost gasped in pain as she shook her head silently.
“Why not?”
“I . . . well . . .'' Julia looked up at the sky and tried to blink her tears away. “I'd love a little girl like you and maybe one day . . .”
“Katie!” the mother interrupted, coming over holding the little boy with one hand, her bag under her arm. “Leave the poor woman alone.” Taking Katie by the hand, she led her away with an apologetic glance at Julia. “I'm so sorry,” she said, pretending not to see the tears, “she drives everyone mad.”
“No, no, it's fine . . .” But the woman, seeing Julia's tears, had moved on, and Julia was left alone to grieve for the child she hadn't conceived.
How can she explain this to Mark? Mark, who has managed to internalize whatever pain he has been feeling. He doesn't talk about it. Doesn't share it. Figures the best way of getting over it is getting on with it.
Julia is occasionally envious of this. More often than not she is furious about this. If Mark won't share his feelings, then neither will she, but this loss and grief and pain is becoming a burden that's almost too heavy for her to carry, and it is all she can do not to scream at him with fury, using anything as an excuse to vent her rage.
Today, the day that Julia has left her job, has been forced to leave her job, Mark is still standing there, unsure what to say, to do. He feels constantly as if he is treading on eggshells around her. One false move and his whole world will come crashing down. He does feel her pain, does have a sense of her loss, and he wants to reach out to her more than anything. He just doesn't know how to do it. He doesn't know where to start.
And he worries that it might be too late.
“Julia.” He reaches out a hand, pleading. “Let's not do this. Not tonight. I want to hear about what happened, not have an argument over nothing—”
“It's not nothing,” Julia snaps, but he knows he's winning, and her heart wasn't really in the snap.
“I know, I know,” he soothes. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Why don't you finish drying your hair and I'll pour you a glass of wine? How does that sound? And do you want a curry tonight? I could order in? Yes? Julia?”
Julia scuffs the carpet on the stair with her big toe, then shrugs. “Okay,” she mutters, sounding astonishingly like a truculent sixteen-year-old. “But I don't want Chicken Korma. I want Chicken Tikka.”
“Okay.” Mark smiles to himself as he watches her walk back upstairs. It may only be temporary, but his peacekeeping skills have actually worked. In the kitchen he uncorks the wine, pours himself a glass and drinks it down immediately, quickly refilling it in case Julia walks in.
Grabbing the bottle and an extra glass, he takes it through to the living room to build a fire. Not that you're supposed to have log fires in Hampstead, only gas imitations, but everyone Mark knows has a real one. It's not uncommon to bump into the occasional local mate on forays to the Heath late at night in search of logs.
The second glass of wine is gone in seconds. He's not a big drinker, but God knows he needs something to help him through at the moment, something to ease the pain.
If I were a religious man, he thinks, setting the glass down on the table and picking up the phone to place the order, I'd start praying to God right about now.